


Hallmark Holiday

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [26]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Banter, Carnivorous Plants, Chess, Dancing, Dating, Drunkenness, Erotic Misuse of Fencing Terminology, Fencing, Flirting, Fluff, Food Porn, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Metaphors, Public Sex, Roses, Snogging, Swordplay, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: It turns out that the Doctor isn’t 100% hopeless at romance; he’s only 99% so. Given infinite time, enough lifespans, and the proper motivation, he’s more than capable of wooing the Master.A series of rare occasions upon which the Doctor actually succeeds at valentines. But only to prove the Master wrong, of course.
Relationships: Seventh Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Sixth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor (Academy Era)/The Master (Academy Era), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), The War Doctor/The War Master (Jacobi), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado)
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Thorny (War Doctor/War Master)

**Author's Note:**

> I had meant to post this the week of Valentine's Day, but - alas - my computer broke down and was in the shop for two weeks. So I'm posting it now, aiming for daily posts unless work intervenes.

“What is this?” The War Master tilted his head to one side and studied the blossom before him.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” The War Doctor chuckled to himself, as if overly pleased that he’d stumped his counterpart.

The War Master raised one eyebrow and inspected the potted plant in the Doctor’s hands more closely. At its base was a swirling mass of green tentacles covered in sharp thorns; they were thrashing erratically, obviously displeased at having their pot picked up like this. From the centre of the tentacles sprouted one long stalk, studded along the sides with tiny snap-traps. After roughly a foot of that, the stem broke into a broad panicle, each flower stem crowned with a miniature rosette – the blooms an inch at most in diameter. The small roses were vivid red and seemed to have a drop of sweet, golden honey at the centre.

“May I?” the War Master asked curiously, and gestured to the pot.

“By all means,” the Doctor said, and all but dumped the pot into the Master’s arms, as if grateful to be rid of it.

Indeed, as the Master clucked soothingly to the agitated flora, it settled down, its tentacles relaxing back against the soil to disguise themselves as basal leaves.

“You always did have the green thumb, of the two of us,” the Doctor said, looking mildly impressed at how easily the Master had quieted the plant.

“One merely has to take a firm hand with these things,” the Master insisted. He trailed one gloved thumb along the stem, to test the reaction of the snap-traps – quite lethal, albeit only to insects – and then dared to stroke the flowers. Those, at least, didn’t bite.

Curiously, he dipped a finger into the honey-like nectar within the flower and then brought the tip of his glove up to his nose for a quick sniff. “Ah, strychnine,” he said fondly at the familiar aroma, “how lovely.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it,” the Doctor said with a satisfied smile.

“Indeed,” the Master agreed, “wherever did you find it?”

“Traxic System, you know.” The Doctor shrugged, hands stuffed haphazardly into the pockets of his battered leather coat.

The Master eyed him askance. “The Time Lords wiped the Traxic System from the timeline at the beginning of the universe back during the Dark Days.”

“Hence why you’re unfamiliar with the local flora,” the Doctor agreed brightly. “But the records are still buried in the Matrix, deep some whereabouts. If one likes to go exploring.”

“As someone does. Compulsively. Pathologically, one might even say.”

The Doctor grunted with mild annoyance at the accusation. “It was called a murder rose.”

The Master let out a sharp exhale of breath, and he felt a warmth rise to his cheeks. “Why, Doctor, you old romantic!” he teased.

The Doctor looked sheepish. “Yes, well, you are exceptionally difficult to buy gifts for, you know.”

“And,” the Master said with a contented smile, giving his murder-rose stalk one last affectionate stroke before setting it carefully upon his windowsill where it could soak up the sunlight and grow delightful poisons for his future use, “if I remember the primitive customs of that old Earth planet you’re so fond of, red roses have a particular hidden meaning as gifts, do they not?”

“They might do,” the Doctor agreed with a blush.

The Master smiled at him menacingly and stalked slowly towards his prey, so that the Doctor gulped and backed up into the mattress. “ _Yes_ ,” the Master agreed fervently, “I _will_ be your arch-nemesis!” And he caught the Doctor up in a passionate and violent kiss.

The Doctor sputtered against his lips. “But that’s not—” He was cut off, however, when the Master pressed him ardently back down against the black silk bedsheets. Then he shrugged and rolled the Master over him onto the bed in a tangle for dominance. “Oh well,” he agreed, “close enough!”


	2. Sword Play (3/Delgado!Master)

“Feeling nostalgic, are we, my dear? Attempting to relive our glory days?”

“Feeling defensive, are we, my dear? Afraid I will be victorious again this time?”

The Master scowled at the blunted tip before his eyes, down the curved length of the blade, to where the Third Doctor held the hilt in his hand. The Doctor had a challenging light in his eyes and a jaunty grin that never failed to rise the Master’s ire (and other things as well). “And here I’d thought you’d learned you had better things to point at me than a sword.”

The Doctor tutted at him. “Come now, don’t be a sore loser. A little exercise before supper, for old times’ sake?”

The Master rolled his eyes and patiently but carefully nudged the blade to one side with his hand. “At least wait until I have a rapier of my own.” He glanced over at the table where the Doctor had been toying with a good number of swords, it seemed.

“Oh, _surely_ your wit alone is sharp enough!”

The Master glared at him. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” he said. His fingers slid idly into the pistol grip of an épée, and he critically tested the balance and bend of the blade.

“And here I was certain it would meet with your approval.” The Doctor sounded almost disappointed.

“The sarcasm?”

“No, the sword.”

The Master fought hard to keep the smile from twitching at the corners of his lips. “As incorrigible as ever, Doctor,” he conceded, and whipped the blade up in a sharp parry. “Although I cannot help but agree. Your sword is somewhat adequate.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened, and his lips sputtered around an outraged ‘you!’ although he held his tongue at the last minute. And then, suddenly, he riposted his blade free of the Master’s guard. “You’ll find it more than adequate by the time we’re through,” he challenged.

The Master retreated quickly, out of range of the Doctor’s first lunge just in the nick of time. They settled at a sparring distance then, an advance here and there, testing each other’s footwork, occasionally scrambling or slowing as they tried to catch each other on the wrong foot.

“Diving right in without so much as an ‘ _en garde_ ’ in warning?” The Master tsked in mock disappointment. “And to think that you call me a bad sport.”

“I think,” the Doctor concluded with a sudden lunge, “that you are perpetually on guard. The words would be a mere redundancy.”

The Master was forced to retreat around the edge of the Doctor’s worktable. There really wasn’t enough space in the Doctor’s lab to spar all-out. On the one hand, it was disappointing. On the other hand, it certainly was cosy. Intimate.

The Master beat the Doctor’s blade once pointedly.

The Doctor flushed in response. “Tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Do what?” the Master teased. “It’s a perfectly legal move.” He beat the Doctor’s sword again, to prove his point. “Strategic, even.” He beat it a third time, a regular rhythm designed to drive the Doctor to distraction.

“Why you…” The Doctor couldn’t entirely hold back his irritation this time. Good, let the Master frustrate and fluster the Doctor, just as much as the Doctor did him!

The Master feinted, the Doctor parried, and their blades caught against each other. The bells of their guards gonged together when the Doctor pressed forward (rather than pulling away, as any sane person would) and the Master held his ground (rather than retreating, again as any sane person would have done).

Neither of them had been fencing long enough to build up a sweat, and yet the Master found his chest heaving as their bodies locked, and the Doctor was panting back at him with just as much effort.

They held like that for too long, trapped in eternal contention, neither able to make that final thrust to victory nor willing to yield at the same time.

At some point, the Matrix got quite a bit confused as to what exactly it was that they were doing with each other, and their swords vanished. Or maybe there had never been actual swords to begin with, and it had all been entirely metaphorical. That sort of thing had been known to happen between them, from time to time.

In a surprise move, the Master shifted his hand from his own hilt onto the Doctor’s instead. The Doctor groaned and countered in turn. The two of them tested each other’s heft, stroked the length of each other’s blades, and each beat each other off really quite superbly.

Naturally, instinctively, the Doctor’s head tilted down just as the Master’s tilted up, and their breaths mingled in a hot puff of frustration, before their mouths settled roughly over each other’s, their tongues duelling in time with their cocks and their swords and anything else phallic that happened to be about.

The Master twisted his wrist around the Doctor’s hilt, and the Doctor – contrary creature that he was – did the same to the Master’s hilt simultaneously. A triumphant _double touché_ pierced through them both, and they buried their cries of ecstasy into their shared kiss, slumping together back onto the bed by the far wall.

(The bed, technically, also might not have been there until that exact moment. Or else it always had been, and the Doctor’s rooms were the same illogical hodgepodge they always had been. Either was equally likely in the Master’s mind.)

“Yes, well,” the Doctor panted into the Master’s hair, before placing a soft kiss to the Master’s temple, “that, my dear, I believe is bout.”

“It is, indeed,” the Master agreed. He pushed aside the Doctor’s ruffles to press his lips against the Doctor’s exposed collarbone, “to me.”

The Doctor sighed contentedly, then stiffened in realisation. “Oh, surely not,” he insisted. “Bout to me.”

The Master stiffened as well. “Is that a challenge to a rematch?” he asked wryly.

“I don’t see why not,” the Doctor agreed affably, “since we’re both swords at the ready.”

“Hmm,” the Master said, “I had assumed all that stiffening was metaphorical.”

“Yes, well, you know how metaphorical works in the Matrix…”

The Master flashed his teeth at the Doctor. “Indeed. My love, let us cross swords again?”

The Doctor gulped visibly. “Oh, yes,” he said, “please.”


	3. Bon Appetit (6/Ainley!Master)

“Master,” the Sixth Doctor said with a gallant, sweeping bow, offering one hand up to the Master with due deference.

The Master eyed him sceptically. The Doctor had foregone his usual multi-coloured coat and plaid eyeball-searing suit. Instead, he was wearing the electric-blue suit and coat which, while still reasonably eyeball-searing, were at least not entirely undignified. The Doctor ventured a peek up at the Master from his low bow when the Master had wavered perhaps longer than was strictly necessary.

The Master unfolded his crossed arms and placed one gloved hand in the Doctor’s. “This is…tolerable,” he conceded, cheeks flushing slightly.

The Doctor beamed at the Master, like he would at some skimpily clad human female who was in awe of the Doctor’s brilliance. The Master snorted with disdain. Not to be deterred, the Doctor rose swiftly from his bow and curled the Master’s hand into the crook of his arm as he led him through the crystal doors of the establishment.

The Master couldn’t help but be marginally impressed by what was inside. It was a restaurant, clearly, but the walls, floor, and ceiling were all composed of different-coloured quartzite crystals. The domed ceiling was translucent enough that the polar plasma-fires from the upper stratosphere could be seen overhead, and the flares of reds, violets, and yellows reflected against every pristine surface within, creating an ever-changing prismatic glow.

Mood-lighting, the Master believed it was called.

An efficient and impeccably polite robot maître d’ rolled over and gushed appropriately at their importance. “If your time-lordships will come this way, we have prepared the best table in the house.”

“Very well,” the Master conceded as the Doctor led him to the central table, overlooking the great gem-fields below, “perhaps this place is even acceptable.”

The Doctor looked over at him and waggled his eyebrows, but still didn’t say a single word.

The robot maître d’ fussed over them and held out their chairs and then poured two glasses of sparkling yellow-green wine. “Only our finest vintage!” it exclaimed, and then fussed back off to leave them alone.

The Doctor raised his glass, and the Master cautiously raised his in response. The rims clinked together, reverberating through the otherwise-empty restaurant.

The Master took a sip. The drink was cool and crisp and bubbled like mint and tachyons against his tongue. The Master raised an impressed eyebrow. “Tell me, Doctor, did you buy out the entire restaurant, just for me?”

“That,” the Doctor finally broke his uncharacteristic silence, “or else I did it to preserve the lives of all the innocent diners you’d have undoubtedly snuffed out, had I allowed them entry.”

The Master chuckled menacingly under his breath. “Self-righteous even in your generosity, I see.”

“Oh, come now,” the Doctor tutted, “admit it: you like it.”

The Master snorted and took another sip of his drink. “I will at least acknowledge that it must’ve taken effort to locate an establishment that serves decent time aperitifs.” _Excellent_ time aperitifs, the Master would’ve said were he being entirely honest, but when was he ever that? He took another contented sip.

The way the Doctor smirked at him, he seemed to know what the Master was thinking, however. “You’re not fooling anyone, darling,” he accused light-heartedly. “Being pampered, fawned over, all the best at your fingertips. You’re practically drooling.”

“And being insufferably lectured at?” the Master retorted. “I suppose I enjoy that, too?”

“You enjoy that,” the Doctor concluded, “best of all.”

The Master glowered at him haughtily.

The robot maître d’, with superb timing, dove in at that moment to deliver a large platter to their table. When it was done, the Master shot it with a disintegrator beam anyway, just to prove that he wasn’t going soft. A second robot maître d’ glided in from the other direction and quickly swept up the ashes of the first.

“Ha!” the Doctor crowed in triumph. “You _are_ enjoying yourself! I knew it!”

The Master harrumphed and eyed the platter before them. It seemed to be made of a pale jade-like stone which had been carved into a grid of perfect little squares, the walls of jade between each miniature dish thin as bone-china. Each cubby contained a different dollop of pate or else a food cube. The Master raised an eyebrow in the Doctor’s direction and broke a stalk off the greater spork-bush that was placed strategically beside their table to provide their cutlery.

The Doctor obtained a spork of his own likewise. “After you, my dear,” he offered magnanimously.

The Master glanced at the selection before him, before scooping up a dash of pale-gold iridescent pate near the middle of the tray. He brought it up to his lips and inhaled a quick waft of savoury aroma with sweet undercurrent. Then slowly, deliberately, he placed his spork in his mouth.

The Doctor’s eyes were dark and knowing across the table, as he took a bite of the same dish.

The Master fought back a moan of satisfaction as the flavour hit his tongue. He couldn’t have named exactly what it was (beyond providing the chemical composition, of course), but it tasted like a rich meat such as Aldivinchian puffer-goose coated with a layer of some kind of tart fruit, followed by a quick aftertaste explosion of cinnamon-coffee.

“An excellent selection!” The Doctor hadn’t bothered to suppress his moan in the slightest. In fact, he’d been rather obscene about the whole affair. He darted his spork out to halve the pale blue cube in the dish closest to him, and offered it up to the Master next. “Here, try this one. It’s one of my favourites.”

“Tell me it’s not from Earth first,” the Master demanded with a tight-lipped smile.

“It’s not,” the Doctor said the sweetest words in all the universe, “from Earth.”

“You old charmer,” the Master smiled, placated, and leaned in to nibble the morsel off the Doctor’s spork.

This dish had a sweet meat flavour to it, something fresh from the sea and still tinged with salt. The blue was some kind of savoury batter, perhaps fried or breaded or both. There was just a twinge of heat to the spices, enough to titillate the tongue but not burn.

The Master allowed himself an appreciative “mmm” if only to see how the Doctor’s eyes darkened with longing in response. “An admirable selection on your part as well, my dearest.”

The Doctor’s cheeks flushed becomingly. He sampled the next dish over – this one a warm peach colour – shooting occasional flirtatious looks in the Master’s direction from under his eyelashes.

The Master felt something warm and contented settle in his belly as they ate, and he didn’t mean the food. They sampled the various selections at their whims, and when one of them found a treat particularly to their liking, they shared it with the other, lips and tongues growing increasingly bold and suggestive on each other’s sporks. It was a heady sensation, having the Doctor’s entire focus like this, being treated so desirably. The Master could grow used to it, if he wasn’t careful.

As a dénouement, after they’d enjoyed their meal, the second robot maître d’ replaced their dinner tray with a dessert tray. It was similar to the previous, except the stone was a warm rose quartz in colour, and each dish contained a tiny puff of pastry or cream.

The Doctor fed the Master a caramel sun-fruit, and the Master retorted with a rainbow-colored mousse that made the Doctor groan wantonly. They satiated their sweet-tooths thoroughly and then, as was the custom with Niktarian dining (or any civilised dining, for that matter), after they’d pleased their taste buds with every dollop of flavour they could desire, they each took one of the nutrient squares from the side of the plate and placed them in each other’s mouth. Even the nutrient squares had a pleasant but subtle seasoning to them (the mark of a truly fine restaurant!), and they instantly filled the Doctor’s and Master’s vitamin, calorie, and satiety needs, leaving them both quite contented and perhaps even a little drowsy.

The Master even forgot to vaporise the second robot maître d’ when it came to take their plates away.

“That was delightful,” the Master finally conceded with a begrudging nod in the Doctor’s direction.

The Doctor’s chest puffed up proudly in response. “Then I take it I’ve won our little wager?”

With a reluctant sigh, the Master finished off his time aperitif and accepted the Doctor’s hand up. “As much as it pains me to admit it,” he agreed, “yes, you’ve won. You were right this time.”

“Ha!” The Doctor waggled his hips just a little as they departed the restaurant, bumping them into the Master’s.

“You are, in fact, capable of taking me to someplace nice,” the Master conceded, “but only on _exceptionally_ rare occasion.”

“Still, you admit it!” the Doctor said, taking his victories where he could get them. “So I may claim my prize?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” the Master acknowledged, and then stepped in close, warm, intimate, so that their breaths teased each other. “Having been taken someplace nice, I shall now recite the M-section of the Oxford English Dictionary around your cock. Just this once.”

The Doctor gulped and squirmed excitedly in his trousers.

The Master raised one eyebrow. “Coming?” he teased, and strode off to the waiting doors of the Doctor’s TARDIS.

The Doctor practically tripped after him as he did so.

A delightful evening, all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding sporks: When I was thinking up what an alien restaurant might be like, I concluded pretty early on that there should be wonky utensils, but nothing I came up with seemed weird enough, until I thought about sporks. And this is because there is nothing in the universe sillier than a spork. I am reasonably certain that they _are_ aliens, now that I've given the matter due consideration. They have successfully infiltrated our homes and our society, ridiculously. Well played, sporks!


	4. Traditional Venue (Academy Era Doctor/Master)

“This planet smells funny,” the adolescent Master complained. They stood on a cement corner of a cement wasteland beside a cement building that claimed, if the garish signs and posters were to be believed, to be some sort of ‘cineplex’ (a portmanteaux which made the Master seriously tempted to burn the whole planet to the ground).

“Really?” The adolescent Doctor sniffed the air. “I think it smells…quaint.”

The Master snorted. “Is ‘quaint’ a euphemism for ‘post-industrial catastrophe’?”

“Yes, well,” the Doctor conceded, “it is a primitive planet, but the inhabitants will work it out in time, no doubt. Like aging wine.”

The Master eyed the litter-strewn car park sceptically. “What planet did you say this was, again?”

“Earth.”

The Master shook his head in disbelief. “You’re dreaming.”

“Let’s go inside,” the Doctor insisted, grabbing the Master’s wrist and yanking on it. “It’ll smell better in there.”

The Master went willingly and immediately made a face upon doing so. “You are such a liar,” he informed the Doctor.

“It’s traditional!” the Doctor insisted. “Stale grease! Butter-like chemicals! Whatever that blue stuff is!”

The ‘blue stuff’ appeared to be some sort of liquid that the human adolescents were devouring.

“Why are we here again?” the Master asked, exasperated.

“That’s traditional, too,” the Doctor said. “Come on.”

There was a human guarding the entrance although, frankly, the guard didn’t look much older than the blue-liquid drinkers. The Doctor ‘accidentally’ knocked over one of the portable vats that the human adolescents carried their blue bile about in, and that distracted the guard long enough for the Doctor and Master to duck under the velvet rope (no force field? How primitive!) and make a run for it.

One of the (comparatively) older humans snitched on them to the guard, but by that time they’d dove into a darkened theatre. And then, upon the Doctor’s prompting, out a side door into a corridor and then down it to another theatre.

The Doctor chuckled to himself and hauled the Master up a flight of stairs, past rows and rows of humans who all gave them prunish, disapproving looks, and then the Doctor ducked them into the back row where no one was sitting. The Doctor fell upon one of the plush seats and slumped down so that he couldn’t be seen, yanking the Master down into the seat beside him to do the same.

They peeked through a gap between two of the seats in front of them to see a human female with a torch step into the theatre, glance around, and then leave again when she didn’t see anything amiss.

The Doctor snickered to himself, delighted. The Master sighed but couldn’t find it in himself to entirely object to the thrill of the chase, at the very least. Especially not when he could feel both the Doctor’s hearts pounding where their sides were pressed tight together in the dark.

“Now what?” the Master whispered once they were in the clear.

At that moment, however, a rickety old motor started. A projector light from directly above and behind their heads turned on, guiding a beam of moving pictures onto the oversized screen at the front of the theatre.

“More primitive technology?” the Master said with a sigh.

“Probably,” the Doctor conceded. “The primitive technology isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

The Doctor grabbed the Master’s robes by the collar. “Now,” he said, “we snog.” And he yanked the Master down on top of him in the back seat.

The Master found himself rather suddenly enthusiastic for the first time since this venture had begun. He managed to get this fingers tangled in the Doctor’s hair, and his other hand squeezed at the Doctor’s waist, caught somewhat uncomfortably against the armrest between their two seats.

The Doctor gasped into their joined mouths and then wriggled beneath the Master. He fumbled wildly behind him until he found some mechanism that raised the armrest.

The Doctor tumbled back, and the Master shoved forwards on top of him until he found himself situated into a nice warm cradle between the Doctor’s thighs. The Doctor thrust his tongue back up into the Master’s mouth demandingly in response, and what the gesture lacked in finesse, it more than made up for in enthusiasm.

The Master pulled back for one moment, panting unnecessarily at the Doctor’s lips. In the background, he could dimly hear some sort of inane melodramatic dialogue and the odd explosion and the zombified “oohs” and “aahs” of the enraptured humans. However, all of that paled in comparison to the fact that the Doctor’s mouth was looking pinker than usual where the Master’s lips had just been.

“We snog?” the Master repeated somewhat sceptically, because there was always a catch with the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded brightly. “For the next two hours or so.”

“And we don’t have to watch this drivel?” Some primitive Earth vehicles were chasing each other and slamming into strategically placed concrete barriers on the film screen.

“Not in the slightest,” the Doctor promised. “It’s tradition.”

The Master leaned in and kissed the Doctor again. “Fine,” he conceded grudgingly. “I suppose these worthless primitives have _one_ good tradition, after all.”

The Doctor beamed up at him with the most insufferable ‘told you so’ expression the Master had ever seen. _There_ was the catch the Master had been waiting for.

The Master snogged it clean off the Doctor’s face. After all, who was he to scoff at tradition?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on my posting schedule: I'm super busy tomorrow and likely won't have time to post. (Possibly Sunday too.) But I'll definitely have the next chapter up by Monday.


	5. Dance with the Devil (10/Simm!Master)

The sound hit the Master like a pulse wave when he stepped through the soundproof barrier into the club. A cacophony of throbbing music, aching laughter, and simmering regret screamed together in a tirade against life, death, sobriety, and sanity. Prismacolor lights flashed in epileptic fits, and darkness sank into the dank corners of human (and every other species) misery.

Everywhere, people and people-adjacent-lifeforms from all across the cosmos were dancing frenetically, grinding and bumping against each other in some desperate attempt to give their brief, pathetic lives meaning. Bedlam followed: from the innocent (the Judoon performing its traditional stomp-dance in the centre of the floor and sending all the other patrons in the vicinity scrambling for the safety of their feet and/or pseudopods) to the bloodthirsty (the Rutans engaged in a round of acid-roulette in the corner, burning away each other’s biowalls in a game of sinister chicken).

In short, it was a happening place. The sort of place the Doctor _never_ took the Master.

The Master was immediately suspicious.

He rolled his shoulders casually, slipping Saxon’s suit out existence with a shrug and instead materialising something a bit more suitable to the atmosphere. He painted himself into a pair of tight-fitting jeans, a shimmery-red top that sparkled under the lights, and plenty of eyeliner. Let it never be said that the Master didn’t dress for the occasion.

He strolled approvingly through the frenetic chaos. There was a Cillian passed out in one booth, and a gang of marauding Adipose seemed to be mugging his unconscious body. Several Tetracles had got their arms all tangled in a knot by one of the bars, or maybe that was how their species had sex: who knew? A Dayfly fluttered her gossamer wings faster than even the Master’s eye could see on the dance floor and threw her head back in ecstasy before exploding into a shower of golden pollen. He mentally gave her a 7 out of 10 (to get full marks, she should’ve killed others in her final death throes).

But as always, inevitably, the Master’s attention focused upon one body and one alone in the universe of infinites.

The Doctor.

Strange that the Master should still feel that name as a throb through his bones, deeper than the pounding noise of the club. It didn’t help that it was such a stupid name.

The Tenth Doctor was leaning forwards on his elbows at one of the far bars, perched precariously atop a stool that was so high that even his spindly legs struggled to reach the ground. Unusually, it seemed that he’d made the bare minimum of concessions towards the club’s dress code: he’d lost the coat, suit-jacket, and vest, and was down to shirtsleeves which were rolled up to his elbows; he’d kept the pinstripe trousers, though. He was talking animatedly to the pretty human bartender and another pretty human girl who was teetering on the barstool beside him, because of course he was.

The Master rolled his eyes and made a heroic leap up onto the empty barstool on the Doctor’s other side. Thank Gallifrey for Time Lord reflexes, or else he would never have managed to make the motion look suave and casual.

The Doctor turned to look at him and then grinned like a besotted idiot. “There you are!” he said delightedly, somehow managing to stretch out each of those vowels into seven or eight syllables.

The Master would’ve said the Doctor was drunk, except that the Doctor’s drink was a ridiculous, fruity-looking thing in a margarita glass that was a cream yellow at the bottom but transitioned up through bright orange, hot pink, and then just at the halfway mark where the Doctor was now sipping turned a neon aquamarine. The glass was rimmed with what looked like slices of indigo-and-red kiwis (the fruit, lamentably, not cross-sections of slaughtered bird).

The Master snorted in distaste at every last thing about the Doctor and ordered, “Cyber-absinthe, double,” somehow without being able to take his eyes off the Doctor the entire time.

The Doctor’s brows rose. “That will…”

“…Completely fuck me up. Believe me, I know,” the Master said with a challenging scowl.

The Doctor gulped once, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Give me a half-shot of that, too,” he requested with a quick blinding smile to the bartender, holding up his half-empty glass.

The bartender took this all in stride, as any competent employee at such an establishment must. She poured a dollop of thick quicksilver toxin into the Doctor’s glass, utterly ruining its cheery aesthetic. The pretty human sitting on the Doctor’s other side didn’t take the hint and tried in vain to tug at the Doctor’s sleeve and regain his attention.

The Master caught the Doctor’s attention back by saying, “So, is that a sonic ruining the lines of your pinstripes, or are you just happy to see me?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes at the lousy line. “Do I look like I’ve got any other pockets at the moment?” he retorted, and then added more slyly. “Besides, no reason why it can’t be both.”

The Doctor’s would-be pet looked frustrated at the Master’s successful pull.

The Master flashed just enough teeth at her to insinuate that he had a thousand times more hidden away extra-dimensionally, and he put the unmitigated glee at every innocent he’d murdered into his eyes. _That_ finally got her to back off, blanching, idiot human, and she scampered back off into the crowd.

“Now, now,” the Doctor tsked, “play nice.” He took a tentative sip of his now be-absinthed drink, made a face, and instantly grabbed the sugar bowl and started ladling cubes into his glass.

The Master let out a raw laugh and downed his whole glass in one painful gulp. “Look at this place!” he said, stretching out his arms far and wide and punching a passing tipsy Slitheen in the process. “ _No one_ is playing nice!”

The Doctor’s expression perked up. “You like it, then?”

“I love it!” the Master corrected. “I can’t wait to unleash chaos.” His expression turned suspicious. “So, why have you brought me here? We’re not going to rescue those kittens by the cloakroom, are we?”

“Kittens?” The Doctor looked over at the door, suddenly worried. “There aren’t _actual_ kittens, are there?”

“They were lapping up the blood of a murdered Martian trader.” The Master groaned into the palm he’d just slapped over his face. “They don’t need your help.”

The Doctor winced. “But…kittens! Surely, they must be underage, at the very least. Don’t know what the bouncer was thinking…”

“Was probably too busy being body-slammed by a Menopteran horde to notice. And: ha! I knew you could ruin _anything_.”

The Doctor looked contrite at this. “Right, sorry. No, we’re not here to rescue kittens…”

“No small miracle.”

“…Since they can clearly look after themselves,” the Doctor concluded.

The Master eyed him sceptically. “What _are_ we here for, then?”

The Doctor extended one hand.

The Master’s eyebrow inched upwards.

The Doctor waggled his eyebrows and fingers beckoningly and inclined his head towards the nearest dance floor.

The Master’s other eyebrow inched upwards, as well.

“Oh, come on!” the Doctor finally exclaimed in exasperation. “You know you want to!”

The Master’s hearts pounded in his ears. That was partly the cyber-absinthe – so-called because it was rumoured strong enough to make even Cybermen lose their inhibitions – and partly the fact that he turned into an absolute moron whenever the Doctor was concerned. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” the Master finally said slowly. “You’ve invited me to a place that isn’t boring, and you don’t want to rescue anybody, but instead you want to _dance_ with me?”

“That’s about the gist of it,” the Doctor agreed. “Well?”

The Master grinned, seized the Doctor’s hand with a sudden, alarming burst of force, and yanked the Doctor off the precarious edge of his barstool.

The Doctor yelped and tripped over his own feet so that he collided with the Master’s body. The two of them tumbled spasmodically onto the dance floor, knocking aside an orgy of Archaeons in the process. The Master caught the Doctor close and breathed in deeply the scent of cracking chronons, blazing artron, and far too much sugar. The next moment, he’d sunk his fingers painfully into the flesh of the Doctor’s bony thighs and thrust his pelvis hard up between them.

The Doctor groaned and draped his arms over the Master’s shoulders like a limp noodle. “I don’t think this counts as proper dancing,” he complained.

“Of course it does.” The Master ground into him again, just for good measure. “You’ve just been doing it wrong this whole time.” He felt the cyber-absinthe ooze over him then, and the beat carried him away.

The Doctor looked back at him, eyes gone over fully black now, looking wanton and lost and completely frenzied. It was a beautiful look on him.

It took a minute for the two of them to find their rhythm together. The polyphonies and subharmonics were tricky at the best of times, let alone when both parties were completely plastered. It also didn’t help that both of them were stubbornly insisting on leading. Eventually, though, their hands found comfortable clutches on each other’s bodies, and their feet moved together as one beast, and their minds merged into a transcendental explosion of psychic energy that cleared half the dance floor.

They were rutting and gyrating together, spiralling out whips of telepathic backlash as they swirled, obscene and self-absorbed and wilder than the Master could ever remember them being, even back in their youth. The Doctor clung to him, eyes bottomless and unfathomable and powerful, but his laughter was infectious and delighted, and the Master found himself giggling spontaneously in response, unable to hold up the tattered remains of any remaining grudge as the absinthe tipped him merrily over edge into besotted lover.

They might have danced for hours like that or years or seconds. Their temporal fields were fluctuating and melding and warping into each other and in turn flaring out and wrecking all of reality around them. They’d emptied the floor now, everyone else giving them wide berth lest an innocent bystander might decay to dust in an instant as a stray millennium crested through them.

They were terrifying and spellbinding and absolutely deadly, and all they were doing was dancing. _This_ was the legacy that the Master had constantly striven for all his lives. _This_ was what they were meant to be together, and let the universe tremble in their wake.

In short, they were making the most spectacular scene. Possibly, it was the best night of all the Master’s lives.

After an eternity of eternities, and also a mere nanosecond, their feet faltered, and their hands slipped, and their minds began to unspool from each other. The Doctor’s eyes turned lazy and soft, and the Master felt something like cotton fill his brain as well. They danced once more – either a minuet or a twerk: the Master never had been able to tell the difference between all those indistinguishable Earth dances.

At the end, they froze together, dissolved into each other, their mouths lazily, sloppily falling onto each other, kissing with hazy, dreamlike fervency.

The entire club seemed to breathe out a collective gasp of relief. At the far corners of the dance floor, other life resumed, although the first tentative dancers gave them a wide berth.

The Master’s and Doctor’s time-streams raced inward and locked together around the epicentre of their kiss. Isolated thus from the rest of reality, they pulled each other from the floor, mouths still frantic and wet and hot, slanting over each other time and time again.

The Doctor’s tooth caught on the Master’s lip, and blood flooded between them, spiced with the sharp tang of artron and cyber-absinthe. The Master groaned in response and shoved hard, and the Doctor fell backwards into a wall. Finally, something to stabilise the two of them as they ripped reality and each other to shreds!

The Master finally broke their kiss to spin the Doctor sharply and shove him over.

The Doctor fell and flailed and caught himself on the wall. He bent at the waist, palms pressed firmly against the bricks in front of him. He hung his head low between his outstretched arms as he panted for breath amidst their reckless abandon.

The Master took a moment to appreciate the view and curved a proprietary hand over the Doctor’s displayed behind. The Doctor squirmed back eagerly into his touch, seemingly unconcerned about the public nature of their exhibition. Well now, that was quite nice, indeed.

Somehow, the Master fumbled and ripped and tore their pants free. He shoved the Doctor’s trousers down until they pooled about the Doctor’s knees, binding him in place. The Doctor shivered in response to the club air on his bare arse, and against the words in Circular Gallifreyan that the Master’s finger scrawled across his cheeks.

“Mine, mine, _mine_!” The Master was seeing temporal afterimages, like ghosts, trailing after his hand’s motions: no doubt a symptom of the absinthe. The result was that he could see the words drawn across the Doctor’s pale skin, as if in black ink, if only for a second after he wrote them.

Even that wasn’t enough. He needed to own this Doctor, mar him, _wreck_ him.

He moaned through a long, deep thrust against the Doctor’s cleft. He’d been aiming to penetrate but missed, the absinthe making him sloppy, so that instead he just frotted a wet stripe between the Doctor’s spread arse-cheeks.

The Doctor whimpered in response and wriggled back up against the Master. Clearly, it wasn’t enough for him in his altered state, either.

The Master forced himself to focus for one moment. He still had the ability to instil biocontrol despite the absinthe, although he’d very much been enjoying not doing so up until this moment. He got his body and limbs steady for the barest amount of time needed to line himself up properly and then push, sharply and relentlessly, into the Doctor’s tight arse. The second he’d bottomed out inside the Doctor’s body, he let himself go again, let the absinthe swirl inside him and take him away.

The Doctor gasped and rocked back into him, effectively fucking himself on the Master’s cock. The Master rutted back in turn, wildly and without abandon. Sometimes, they prepared for this. Sometimes, they were careful. But the Doctor’s body was well-accustomed to the Master’s intrusion now. It knew its mate. And, in times like this, that meant that they could throw caution entirely to the wind, and the Master could pound into the Doctor with every last fibre of his enhanced Time Lord strength.

The Master watched himself, sliding in and out, in and out, of the Doctor’s needy hole. The friction between them made a filthy wet slurping sound as he did so. It nearly overwhelmed him, impossibly loud so that it sounded over the background music and the appreciative murmurs of the onlooking crowd and the moans that were escaping the Doctor’s lips.

His fingers clasped onto the Doctor’s hips, nails sinking into lithe muscle, and he held the Doctor fast as he pummelled into that willing body again and again and again. He’d lost all control now, but the Doctor was his, his, _his_!

He came suddenly and violently, an abrupt break to the storm. He ground in deep for that final thrust, buried inside the Doctor all the way to the hilt, as he spilled out his pleasure.

The Doctor still clenched and rocked back into him, and one of the Doctor’s hands had now abandoned the wall to jerk himself off with the frantic sound of fist over cock. Then the Master felt the Doctor give around him, spasms wracking through his internal muscles, as he came upon the Master’s cock the way he was always meant to.

After they were done, they slumped haphazardly onto a nearby sofa in a tangled heap. The crowd around them dispersed now that the spectacle was over. One of their audience attempted to move in, predatory, to stroke an exposed flank, but the Master’s telepathic shields flared up viciously, which effectively drove away that threat and any other.

Dazedly, the two of them nuzzled together in the aftermath. Somehow, the Master had come out of their collapse as the small spoon, which he should have objected to on principle, but he couldn’t seem to care about anything at that moment. Well, anything other than the fact that the Doctor was nosing sleepily into the back of his neck, of course.

“’m sticky,” the Doctor mumbled against the Master’s ear.

“Me too.”

“’n’ my pants are still down.”

“Yup.”

“Should probably go back to the TARDIS.”

“Probably,” the Master agreed.

“But don’t wanna move.”

“So don’t,” the Master said. “After all, who’s going to make us?”

There was a brief pause. The Doctor had let the power and insanity wash over him earlier, but the Master could feel the absinthe wearing off now – nothing could incapacitate Time Lord biology and its endless redundancies for long – and the Doctor had drunk far less. While sober, the Doctor didn’t like to acknowledge the beautiful darkness inside him; it interfered with his view of himself as a harmless, bumbling do-gooder.

However, instead all the Doctor said was, “Good point,” and he spooned up against the Master more snuggly, enfolding the Master in long, scrawny limbs.

The Master could get very used to this, the Doctor free and reckless. He took a moment to steady his mind and wet his lips. “So why _are_ we here?” he demanded again, far too late.

“Why not?” the Doctor retorted.

“This isn’t your scene,” the Master insisted.

“It’s the universe. Everything is my scene.”

“You know what I mean.”

The Master thought the Doctor would leave it at that, and he did for a bit. But then finally he spoke up again. “You’re right,” the Doctor agreed.

“As always.”

The Doctor snorted. “Hardly. But you are right that this isn’t my usual scene.”

The point was obvious enough that the Master would’ve felt insulted to reply.

“However,” the Doctor added, “it is very much _your_ scene. And seeing as we’re, well…”

“ _Canoodling_?”

The Doctor groaned. “Fine, yes, that. Do you have to say it like that?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Of course you do,” the Doctor agreed wearily. “Anyway, seems only fair to pick destinations you would like, from time to time.”

“I’m amazed you ‘pick’ any destinations whatsoever.” The Master snorted. “It seems more like wherever you get lost.”

“Oh, shut up,” the Doctor grumbled contentedly into the Master’s shoulder.

The Master sighed and shut his eyes and let himself enjoy being held, just for the moment. And then he cracked open one eye. “Doctor?” he asked.

“Oh no…” the Doctor said. “What now?”

“I _really_ like dancing. Take me again some time?” It was more an order than a request.

“Over my dead body,” the Doctor promised, which was exactly how the Master expected it to go.

“Perfect!”


	6. Mate (7/Ainley!Master)

“A nightcap?” the Seventh Doctor asked as they settled in for the evening.

“Oh, why not?” the Master agreed with a faint air of insincere reluctance. He eyed the Doctor up and down with a bit too much fang to be entirely normal. “Make mine a cognac.”

“As you like,” the Doctor conceded, suspiciously demurely for this incarnation. He handed the Master one large snifter and poured a healthy splash of deep, rich amber into the glass.

The Master knew the Doctor was up to something when the Doctor poured his own drink and, instead of brandy, tea poured from the decanter, and the Doctor’s snifter obligingly turned itself to a quaint china cup with roses upon it in response. Of course, this Doctor was always up to something, so that didn’t really mean anything.

“I thought that we might enjoy an intimate evening, just the two of us,” the Doctor suggested, and snuggled comfortably into the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa where the Master had sprawled his limbs in obvious, aggressive display.

“By all means,” the Master agreed warily, and took a sip of his drink.

The Doctor leaned forward eagerly, teacup balanced carefully on his knees, and said, “How about a nice game of chess?”

The Master fought the urge to roll his eyes. No game of the chess that the Seventh Doctor had ever played could justifiably be dubbed ‘nice’. “A battle of wits? How cliché.”

“How better to rekindle our rivalry?” the Doctor retorted.

“I was not aware that our rivalry needed rekindling,” the Master countered.

The Doctor shrugged, leaned back in his cosy armchair, and took a modest sip of his tea. “I like to believe that I can always stoke your… _animosity_ to further heights.”

The Master flashed a bit of deliberate fang. Not too much, of course, just enough to encourage the Doctor along with the notion that the Master was a dangerous enemy. A less experienced nemesis might have growled or hissed, but the Master knew better than to come off as too eager: let the Doctor work for it a bit.

An ornate, wooden chessboard materialised between them. It looked to be just the sort of Earth antique the Doctor would have an irrational fondness for. The Master casually snatched up one of the black bishops – carved with exceptional skill from some dense, dark wood such as ebony – and rubbed his thumb and forefinger along the smooth gloss on its head.

“A fine set,” the Master said. “I’ll grant you that, at least.”

“You can take black, of course,” the Doctor said, as if the offer were magnanimous.

“Ah yes, you do so love your little advantages.” The Master sighed. So predictable, this Doctor!

“I had thought,” the Doctor corrected him, “that you might enjoy it if I were to make the first move.” He advanced his pawn with a sharp thrust of his hand.

The Master shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well now,” he said, “this is new.” He set the bishop that he’d been absentmindedly fingering back down in its place, and then extended his own pawn in retaliation. “Feeling bold today, are we?”

“A little aggression can do wonders, I sometimes find.” The Doctor’s tone was conversational, but his opening was absolutely vicious.

The Master found himself shifting in his seat, leaning forward over the board, _anticipating_. “You’ll get no arguments from me,” he said, and tore into the Doctor’s defences with homicidal glee.

“Hmm, I thought you might agree.” The Doctor calmly, remorselessly took the Master’s rook. “I have heard that very criticism levelled at myself upon occasion, even, that I can be lacking in directness and that sometimes even those dearest to me are unsure where they stand in my affections.” Three moves later and there went the Master’s queen.

“Have you, now?” The Master bided his time and snatched the Doctor’s queen mere moves later.

The Doctor shivered and smiled up at the Master in a way that was far too kindly to be good for the Master’s health. “One does tend to forget,” he continued to chat casually over his tea, as if he weren’t challenging the Master to the match of their lifetimes, “especially when one leads such a hectic life, that sometimes one needs to be _explicit_. A little assertiveness can go a long way towards getting what one really wants, I’ve found.” And there went the Master’s last remaining knight. “If one is too indirect, others might not realise that one is staking one’s claim.”

The Master paused and scowled down at the board, then diverted his remaining bishop in a way that made the Doctor gasp and tense and spend an exceptionally long time thinking through his next move. “Is that what this is, then?” the Master asked.

The Doctor glanced up at him with furtive, smiling, unknowable eyes. “Being forward is the best, I’m sure you’ll agree.” He moved his rook. “Check. It would be such a shame, to miss out on the important things in life because one never took the time to really appreciate them.”

The Master swallowed harder than was strictly necessary around his next sip of cognac. Was this what it felt like to be desired, pursued by a relentless foe that one could never escape? If so, the Master hadn’t known what he’d been missing all his lives; he could enjoy playing the object of affection till the end of his (infinite) days. No wonder the Doctor had grown so complacent over the years! 

“My, you are coming on strong this evening, aren’t you??” the Master finally said lightly. “One might almost feel _appreciated_ , indeed.” He moved his king to safety, guarded carefully by his bishop.

“An engaging opponent is always appreciated,” the Doctor insisted. He set his teacup on the end table and folded his arms in his lap, as if waiting.

The Master twitched while the Doctor continued to do absolutely nothing whatsoever. The way the board looked, the Doctor was sure to mate him soon. So why didn’t he?

“Well?” the Master finally demanded impatiently.

“Well what?” the Doctor asked, eyebrows raised in faux innocence.

“Make your move!” the Master finally snapped in frustration.

“Don’t mind if I do…”

And then the Doctor, contrarily, knocked the chessboard aside, lunged across the distance between them, and tackled the Master back onto the sofa. His mouth was hot and furious and hungry upon the Master’s, demanding the sweet returns of his fair-won victory.

The Master moaned back into the Doctor’s mouth and squirmed rather piteously beneath him on the sofa cushions. Where the Doctor’s hands touched him, mind burned over matter, and his found his clothing dematerialised with shocking alacrity.

“I do hope,” the Doctor said with a gasp, when the Master’s palms pressed flat against his chest, dissolving the layers of fabric between them so that they were skin on skin, “that I’ve satisfied your concerns as to how seriously I regard you as a worthy opponent?”

“I believe you’ll need to make quite a few more moves before I’m satisfied,” the Master retorted, and manoeuvred his hips so that he could wrap his legs around the Doctor’s waist.

“Criticism accepted,” the Doctor agreed, and lined himself up. “It wouldn’t do to leave the game unfinished, after all.”

“Indeed not,” the Master said far too eagerly.

“In that case, then”—the Doctor thrusted home deeply into the Master in one brilliant stroke—“ _mate_!”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another generically written 'insert your fave Doctor/Master combo here' installment, since I figure every single pair of them had this argument. :P

“I still say it’s a Hallmark holiday,” the Master insisted snootily.

The Doctor groaned at the Master’s stubbornness. “You know, for someone who claims to hate Earth, you sure do use a lot of obscure Earth expressions.”

The Master glared at the Doctor stonily and then turned up their nose and looked the other way.

Belatedly, the Doctor realised that pointing out that, despite all the vehement denials, the Master obviously had developed an affinity for Earth, was probably not the best way to woo the Master around to the Doctor’s side on this issue. Terrible, horrible threats were a much better way to coerce the Master: “Well, if you don’t _like_ it, we could also go back to doing what we usually do on Valentine’s Day…”

The Master’s eyes widened. “You mean like that year when you stuck a jelly baby between your buttocks and informed me that I had a treat just waiting for me to find it?”

“That’s the stuff!” the Doctor agreed with a grin.

“You wouldn’t! That is absolutely _cruel_ ,” the Master said with an approving little sigh. “And they call me evil…”

“So, you would, in fact, prefer it if I at least attempt to put in the absolute bare minimum of effort towards something remotely resembling romance in the future?”

“As long as you’re careful about it,” the Master said dryly. “I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out or anything. Try not to sprain your competency muscles, for instance.”

“Oh, now you’re just being difficult! That was a perfectly competent date, and you know it. Downright textbook, in fact: flowers, a fun couples’ activity, dinner, a show, dancing, and then a nightcap back at mine.”

“Was it, really?” the Master asked sceptically. “Because I hate to break it to you, my dear, but those events occurred in an entirely different sequence in our lifetimes from that plan. It seems to me you mucked up the chronology a bit. Or a lot. Per usual.”

“No, I didn’t!” the Doctor insisted, then frowned. “I don’t think I did?” They made a concerned face and finally asked meekly: “Did I?”

The Master relented with a fond but exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry about it; we’re Time Lords. Temporal order matters little in the grand scheme of us.”

“Knew I’d got it right!” the Doctor said, their usual annoying, insufferably optimistic enthusiasm blooming anew. “Now say it.”

The Master grumbled, muttered some death threats under their breath, and absolutely refused to look at the Doctor’s smug, victorious face. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” the Master finally spat out all in a rush, complete with murderous glare.

“That’s the ticket!” the Doctor said, and pressed the briefest, goofiest, most ridiculous kiss imaginable upon the tip of the Master’s nose. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too!”

And stupidly, despite themselves, the Master couldn’t help but feel very happy, indeed.


End file.
